The Peekers, the Criers and the New Testamenters
By Joe Acton
Every now and then you get on a plane and things start going sour for you right from the very beginning.
Last week I had to go back East on a business trip. It was one of the "direct" flights which, I found out later is not to be confused with a non-stop flight. The difference between the two appears to be that a "direct" flight stops at just about every airport you can imagine between here and your destination, while a non-stop flight doesn't stop anywhere enroute, it just starts out an hour late.
Anyway, I get on board and find my seat in the middle section of the cattle car, with seats to my left and right. The guy to my right is already seated — studiously reading a copy of "The Living Bible." Not a particularly encouraging sign when you get on a plane, but I figure if anything really bad happens, it'll probably be one of the few chances I'd ever get to show up at the Pearly Gates carrying a Bible — or at least with someone who is. And that can't hurt your chances.
Anyhow considering we had a 3-hour plus flight ahead of us and my right shoulder and his left shoulder were already going steady, I thought I should introduced myself. Bad idea. Broke his train of concentration.
He allowed that he was recently "re-born" and thus studying and didn't have time to talk during the flight — unless I wanted to be ministered to. I didn't. Really. Absolutely the very last thing either of wants is for him to start ministering to me especially given his recent conversion to Jesus-something seems predicated on pop-quizes, which I was never any good at so after I beat him to death with his bible and get shot by the Air Marshal meself, we'll both have a lot of 'splaining to do, Lucy at the Pearly Gates.
"Okay," I thought, "it's going to be a long flight."
And that's when I first noticed the kid in front of me. Standing there. Staring at me. Watching my every move. Sucking on his binky. Oh, yeah, this had all the ear-markings of a very long flight.
But hey, how bad can it be? I mean how long can a "long flight" be? Let's put it in a perspective we're all familiar with: A "long flight" is like standing in the only line at the grocery store. It's late at night and the only thing you're buying is Pepto-Bismal for your chronic, explosive diarrhea. The lady in front of you shops only once a month for her family of 6, all of whom she has fel compelled to bring and arm with grocery carts. Her personal basket is full of groceries none of which have the prices marked on them and she wants to pay with a third-party out-of-state check written in pencil. She's left her library card identification in the car with her keys locked inside, she speaks only a few words of English, and has a bad speech impediment. This is the checker's first day on the job and the tape on the cash register just ran out.
Add all that together and you're still short of how long and uncomfortable you life is gong to be with a kid jumping up and down in his chair staring back at you for the entire three hour flight.
There's really only two kinds of kids that travel on planes: the Peek-a-boo'ers and the Criers. Rule #1: the Peek-a-boo'ers always sit in front of you and the Criers always sit somewhere behind you. Rule #2: you never see the Criers and can't get away from the Peek-a-boo'ers . Rule #3: no amount of playing with the Peek-a-boo'ers will make them go away, and no amount of sinister thoughts about the Criers or their parents will make them stop crying.
So after an hour's wait on the ground the Crier cranks up. The plane's air-conditioning is off, I'm hot and starting to sweat, people are getting edgy about missing their connecting flight, there's no word from the crew why we're being delayed — and the Crier starts hitting some of his best stuff.
First a whimper, then a choke and small muffled cry. Mom doesn't act fast enough for the Crier and the next thing we all know he's doing a 8.7 on Crying Richter Scale with no end in sight.
And you start thinking of all the things you'd like to do about it or tell the parents. Ago ahead -- admit it, this has happened to you and you sat there just like I did and fantasized about what you'd like to do or say. But, of course, you never did because we've all got kids and have been stuck in the same situation at one time or another with our own kids.
Just the same, wouldn't you like to have the guts just once to call the stewardess. When she arrives she asks, "May I help you?" You reply with your best Andy Rooney voice, "Yes, I'd like to order a bowl of chili for the child in 26b."
The Peek-a-boo'er is a whole different cat though. He's ready to know everything there is to know about everyone on the plane. He stands up, turns around in his seat, and watches your every move. He peeks at you between the seats. He peers over the top of the seat.
When the Peek-a-boo'er in front of me finally smiled, his binky fell out of his mouth onto my side of the seat. I picked it up and handed it back only to discover we'd just invented a new game: Retrieve the Binky.
Nothing escapes the Peek-a-boo'er's attention. Nothing. Especially if it's embarrassing to you.
Okay, I admit it. I had a little cold when I went on the trip. No big deal. Stuffy nose, minor sore throat. Like that. I was doing fine — had my kleenex, cough drops, cold pills. Basically I was all set to deal with a cold on the flight.
And I was doing fine right up until the meal. The airline was busy serving their Chicken Surprise when right in the middle of it all I had to sneeze — which then drew the undivided attention of the Peek-a-boo'er who immediately put me under heavy surveillance.
Hey, no big deal. I got a kid. I'm a daddy. I know the game. Sooner or later Mr. Peek-a-boo'er gets tired of staring and I'm off the hook. Right? Right.
Except for the sneeze. Made my nose itch. Not thinking it all the way through, but knowing full well I'm being watched, I scratched my nose. The inside of it. With my finger. Yeah, I know. Big-time brain fade.
Peek-a-boo'er goes off like a rocket: "MOMMY, MOMMY, THAT MAN'S PICKING HIS NOSE! HOW COME HE CAN PICK HIS NOSE AND I CAN'T?" Peek yells.
A concert of forks dropped to their trays as everyone within shouting distance simultaneously lost their appetites.
Meanwhile Peek-a-boo'er comes back up to periscope depth and makes another run.
"Mommy, now he's blowin' his nose in his nakpin [napkin]," he announces.
At this the guy next to me couldn't stand it anymore. With a great sigh and Herculean theatrical effort he tosses "The Living Bible" onto his tray and snides out, "Oh my Lord."
Seeing what might be my only chance I replied, "No, I don't think so — it's just a kid with a binky but, hey, I've been wrong before. And HE is everywhere, right?"
The New Testament Jockey moved to a different seat for the duration of the flight, leaving just me and Peek-a-boo'er to keep a running tally of my nose escapades. And, it was almost worth it.
Sometimes it goes like this for days and days. And then it gets worse.
By Joe Acton
Every now and then you get on a plane and things start going sour for you right from the very beginning.
Last week I had to go back East on a business trip. It was one of the "direct" flights which, I found out later is not to be confused with a non-stop flight. The difference between the two appears to be that a "direct" flight stops at just about every airport you can imagine between here and your destination, while a non-stop flight doesn't stop anywhere enroute, it just starts out an hour late.
Anyway, I get on board and find my seat in the middle section of the cattle car, with seats to my left and right. The guy to my right is already seated — studiously reading a copy of "The Living Bible." Not a particularly encouraging sign when you get on a plane, but I figure if anything really bad happens, it'll probably be one of the few chances I'd ever get to show up at the Pearly Gates carrying a Bible — or at least with someone who is. And that can't hurt your chances.
Anyhow considering we had a 3-hour plus flight ahead of us and my right shoulder and his left shoulder were already going steady, I thought I should introduced myself. Bad idea. Broke his train of concentration.
He allowed that he was recently "re-born" and thus studying and didn't have time to talk during the flight — unless I wanted to be ministered to. I didn't. Really. Absolutely the very last thing either of wants is for him to start ministering to me especially given his recent conversion to Jesus-something seems predicated on pop-quizes, which I was never any good at so after I beat him to death with his bible and get shot by the Air Marshal meself, we'll both have a lot of 'splaining to do, Lucy at the Pearly Gates.
"Okay," I thought, "it's going to be a long flight."
And that's when I first noticed the kid in front of me. Standing there. Staring at me. Watching my every move. Sucking on his binky. Oh, yeah, this had all the ear-markings of a very long flight.
But hey, how bad can it be? I mean how long can a "long flight" be? Let's put it in a perspective we're all familiar with: A "long flight" is like standing in the only line at the grocery store. It's late at night and the only thing you're buying is Pepto-Bismal for your chronic, explosive diarrhea. The lady in front of you shops only once a month for her family of 6, all of whom she has fel compelled to bring and arm with grocery carts. Her personal basket is full of groceries none of which have the prices marked on them and she wants to pay with a third-party out-of-state check written in pencil. She's left her library card identification in the car with her keys locked inside, she speaks only a few words of English, and has a bad speech impediment. This is the checker's first day on the job and the tape on the cash register just ran out.
Add all that together and you're still short of how long and uncomfortable you life is gong to be with a kid jumping up and down in his chair staring back at you for the entire three hour flight.
There's really only two kinds of kids that travel on planes: the Peek-a-boo'ers and the Criers. Rule #1: the Peek-a-boo'ers always sit in front of you and the Criers always sit somewhere behind you. Rule #2: you never see the Criers and can't get away from the Peek-a-boo'ers . Rule #3: no amount of playing with the Peek-a-boo'ers will make them go away, and no amount of sinister thoughts about the Criers or their parents will make them stop crying.
So after an hour's wait on the ground the Crier cranks up. The plane's air-conditioning is off, I'm hot and starting to sweat, people are getting edgy about missing their connecting flight, there's no word from the crew why we're being delayed — and the Crier starts hitting some of his best stuff.
First a whimper, then a choke and small muffled cry. Mom doesn't act fast enough for the Crier and the next thing we all know he's doing a 8.7 on Crying Richter Scale with no end in sight.
And you start thinking of all the things you'd like to do about it or tell the parents. Ago ahead -- admit it, this has happened to you and you sat there just like I did and fantasized about what you'd like to do or say. But, of course, you never did because we've all got kids and have been stuck in the same situation at one time or another with our own kids.
Just the same, wouldn't you like to have the guts just once to call the stewardess. When she arrives she asks, "May I help you?" You reply with your best Andy Rooney voice, "Yes, I'd like to order a bowl of chili for the child in 26b."
The Peek-a-boo'er is a whole different cat though. He's ready to know everything there is to know about everyone on the plane. He stands up, turns around in his seat, and watches your every move. He peeks at you between the seats. He peers over the top of the seat.
When the Peek-a-boo'er in front of me finally smiled, his binky fell out of his mouth onto my side of the seat. I picked it up and handed it back only to discover we'd just invented a new game: Retrieve the Binky.
Nothing escapes the Peek-a-boo'er's attention. Nothing. Especially if it's embarrassing to you.
Okay, I admit it. I had a little cold when I went on the trip. No big deal. Stuffy nose, minor sore throat. Like that. I was doing fine — had my kleenex, cough drops, cold pills. Basically I was all set to deal with a cold on the flight.
And I was doing fine right up until the meal. The airline was busy serving their Chicken Surprise when right in the middle of it all I had to sneeze — which then drew the undivided attention of the Peek-a-boo'er who immediately put me under heavy surveillance.
Hey, no big deal. I got a kid. I'm a daddy. I know the game. Sooner or later Mr. Peek-a-boo'er gets tired of staring and I'm off the hook. Right? Right.
Except for the sneeze. Made my nose itch. Not thinking it all the way through, but knowing full well I'm being watched, I scratched my nose. The inside of it. With my finger. Yeah, I know. Big-time brain fade.
Peek-a-boo'er goes off like a rocket: "MOMMY, MOMMY, THAT MAN'S PICKING HIS NOSE! HOW COME HE CAN PICK HIS NOSE AND I CAN'T?" Peek yells.
A concert of forks dropped to their trays as everyone within shouting distance simultaneously lost their appetites.
Meanwhile Peek-a-boo'er comes back up to periscope depth and makes another run.
"Mommy, now he's blowin' his nose in his nakpin [napkin]," he announces.
At this the guy next to me couldn't stand it anymore. With a great sigh and Herculean theatrical effort he tosses "The Living Bible" onto his tray and snides out, "Oh my Lord."
Seeing what might be my only chance I replied, "No, I don't think so — it's just a kid with a binky but, hey, I've been wrong before. And HE is everywhere, right?"
The New Testament Jockey moved to a different seat for the duration of the flight, leaving just me and Peek-a-boo'er to keep a running tally of my nose escapades. And, it was almost worth it.
Sometimes it goes like this for days and days. And then it gets worse.